


Arson In Innocence

by susurrous



Category: DOGS (Manga), Deadman Wonderland, Devil May Cry
Genre: Azuma Genkaku/Badou Nails - Freeform, Implied Azuma Genkaku/Dante, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, M/M, Quick and Dirty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 17:44:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susurrous/pseuds/susurrous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Genkaku had asked Nero once if he had an addictive personality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arson In Innocence

**Author's Note:**

> For the Kink Meme of 2010, gargleblasted/Mostly Harmless RPG on LJRP.

Genkaku had asked Nero once if he had an addictive personality. All the natural reasoning came with his answer, a short and crisp:  _“no fuck off what’s wrong with you”_ , because he didn’t. Drugs, alcohol, sex, the things that normally define “addictive” completely escape his notice, and even when pushed right under his nose, he can stick it up in the air and go off to find the scent of blood and gasoline instead.   
  
Genkaku had just smiled maybe, for once, done what he was told. Because he knew better.   
  
Nero is a bit naïve, he thinks.   
  
  
  
Fixing his own sink had been impressive. Getting the electricity turned on, mastering the pipes, killing all the space termites. The monk really was carving out his own space in the depths of Thor, making his own little world that he wasn’t going to share with anyone he didn’t want to. Badou was only half-joking when he called him Mister Fix It (both in the metaphor of Fixing [because that was just the opposite] and when his hands were grease-stained and tool-worn), and both of them had found that just fine.   
  
And then the Hovercraft had broken down. And Genkaku’s hands tinker and Genkaku’s hands fumble, but for the mechanisms of the device …   
  
“Sausage Fingers,” Badou hummed afore a mocking wolf whistle, and the monk’s face contorted to an annoyed glare.   
  
“Then you come do it. You got smaller hands.”   
  
“Oh hell no. You know when I get anywhere near that kinda shit, it falls apart."   
  
The frustrated hum on the other end of the conversation was like electricity, and Badou was immediately pulled in like an insect to the glow. Genkaku's arms all stained up in grit and grease and he wanted to touch it, to feel the difference between the harsh oil of a vehicle and the softer oils of his skin (as far as he'd known, living underground had depleted all his own skin of moisture, but Outsiders were different).   
  
He swallowed back need as he asked; "Whatcha gonna do?"   
  
And the ugly smile that usually turned people running the other direction split on Genkaku's face like a sickle-scythe. "I think I got a guy."   
  
  
  
"Fuck off," Nero snarled, his arm thrumming with pent-up tenacity (wanna fight gotta fight need'a fight) as he glared at the monk's chest, the way it came in closer and the split-skin scar (from his prisonbreak) licked at the lapels of his leather robes, promising quietly I Can Handle Pain (and that was a necessity in dealing with Nero). "I'm not doing it."   
  
The two obscenely tall man facing him exchanged snide glances, turning over frowning lips into sardonic smiles. Badou pulled his own jilted body off of the wall and walked away, waving a scarred hand over his shoulder and muttering, "Do ya thing, Super Monk." (Nero had caught onto their flirting once before, but  _this_ escaped him.)   
  
When apparently the man went to indeed "do his thing", he turned sharply around the the hunter with thick arms on either side of his face, the scent of spice and blood and sex and death and motorfuel clinging to his body, and all at once that seemed so overwhelming to his demon-sharp senses (and his  _sensibilities_  -- but wasn't that a chick thing?). And he thought it clicked for him why he didn't want to fight Genkaku, and it ain't because the man was too much of a showman or he thought he was a pushover, but because he didn't want to be the one responsible for killing a human, no matter how much that human seemed like a demon.   
  
Maybe Dante had instilled some sort of morale into him, after all. ... How sick was that.   
  
"I'm not Dante," he clipped through a growl (a dead give-away to the monk about what was on the man's mind). "You can't just hope to fuck me and then I'll do something for you."   
  
The reaper's smile was back again. "You ain't creative enough for that, anyway," was the purring growl, and his mouth, his leather, his  _scars_  loomed closercloser _tooclose_. "You work the opposite, yeah? I'll fuck you if you don't do it."   
  
"And your brain'll become my new gun clip."   
  
"Don't even joke; y'know I get off on that shit."   
  
Maybe it could be called A Moment Of Truth. With a person's back against the wall, they make all kinds of crazy decisions, right? From anxiety or nervousness or whatever the  _fuck_  -- but that wasn't where Nero was coming from. It was just the opposite.   
  
Only two people had ever gotten him trapped since leaving the streets, and he had to admit to the possibility of feeling like a corner animal also felt a little like home, his flexible body smothered into a solid object.   
  
(And Genkaku had noticed.)   
  
(Genkaku always Notices.)   
  
So when ice blue eyes left the kernel-callouses of the scar on his chest and found themselves (trapt) in burning, hellfire red, he looks that little bit of naive Genkaku swears he has when he mutters out, "fine", and shoves off, pushing him away to inspect the damage. (And the monk inspects the damage, too -- wonders just how mangled up Nero is on the inside and what's Beyond Repair and what just needs a little oiling to get moving smoother.)   
  
  
  
Working on the craft reminded Nero of the old, beat-up car he was working on back home. He thought of how Kyrie would watch him, sing to him while he worked when he didn't have the pulse of his headphones grounding him away from reality, and the way she would swing her feet as she sat on the hood of a car.   
  
Credo would always bitch, something about getting her white clothes dirty on rusting hoods, or a wound scratched open from mangled metal she carelessly missed. He remembers her disgust the first time he told her to lick a scrape she'd gotten on her hand.   
  
"Saliva speeds up the healin' process," he'd said, a young (naive) kid from the streets who knew nothing of Tetanus.   
  
With the hum of the ship bringing him back to his reality on Thor, it's not Kyrie that was hovering him, but Genkaku. Just like her, he wasn't licking wounds, but instead just letting them bleed and bleed and get smothered in grime (not young and not naive, just devil-may-care) as he kept working, impervious to the glance (but not ignorant).   
  
Nero started finding he liked the contradiction. Guys like him always do, the way it started with  _I do it 'cuz it gets my mind off home_  and turned into  _I do it 'cuz I been doing it everyday anyway_ which morphed into  _I'm doin' it 'cuz I want to now fuck off._    
  
Badou couldn't really bring himself to be jealous. He knew he was First, anyway -- and it's just another thing Genkaku had on his plate that wore him down and let him sleep (and let Badou Fix Him). It was always a means to an end, anyway.   
  
The monk stayed his distance for the first long while. Nero began to swore he was gonna keep it that way until they were done with the craft, but then he remembered what swearing actually got him. (A Vatican full of dead worshipers -- or, less metaphorically, a thwack on the back of the head from Credo.)   
  
  
  
They were one part away from being finished up when Genkaku made his move, and, in retrospect, Nero wouldn't even be sure it was a conscious decision --  _to move._  It was just what Genkaku did, when the atmosphere felt right, when it was time for the wind to pass through, when it was time to start fire.   
  
He moved.   
  
And they both would walk away with bruises.   
  
  
  
"You aren't as slimy as I thought you'd be," Nero  _complimented_  over the twisting of a wrench. He should know better than to go out on limbs (he's not a fuckin'  _bird_ , like the ones from the stories Genkaku tells him over their work, all pent up in their cages and bleeding); he should know better than to give the man anything, because -- this shit they do? It ain't for real. It's as much escapism as his music is.   
  
"All you fuckers always thinkin' snakes are slimy," Genkaku laughed with his hands on his knees, leaning over the man's shoulder to watch his smaller hands work (and Nero's learned to ignore the feverheat that pours off the man's body). "They just got scales, and scales means texture. That's your kinda thing, ain't it?"   
  
"What, scales?"   
  
" _Texture,_ " He emphasized with the curl of his lips. "Guns and blades and workin' on cars and shit. It's all about feeling the tangible, yeah?"   
  
The hunter's hands stopped working for a moment, looking up over his shoulder, and Genkaku sees the innocent kid with white hair all over him again. "... I guess."   
  
"Don't you even know the shit you do while you do it?"   
  
"Nah," going back to work; "I just  _do._ "   
  
If Genkaku was surprised by the admission, his face didn't show it (even though Nero couldn't see it). Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't that. But it meant he finally found the string that connected them, the thing that had drawn him into the kid's personality -- he just  _did_ , without thought, and once he got going, he never stopped.   
  
And that was when Genkaku snaked his arms around his waist.   
  
"--The fuck? What the hell, you psycho, get the fuck off me!"   
  
"Shut up." And the voice was in a timbre Nero wasn't even sure registered on his scales, an octave that was low and gritty and --   
  
had  _texture._  "Shut up," he said again; "And just  _do._ "   
  
  
  
He still doesn't know why it happened. The sweat-slick between bodies, the taste of oil in his mouth, Genkaku's too-big not-clumsy fingers on him like triggers in gun loops, leather and fire and fuel ... the scents and the textures had overwhelmed his senses, the pain of entry dissolving into the pleasure of readmission (both in words and in mangled, sexual euphemisms) had taken him under in the same way his blood poured hotter during a fight.   
  
There was no tenderness. No tongues. No nudity even -- not  _really_ , with Nero's coat just folded up on his back like a hot band and Genkaku's hands slithering up his chest and down, on hips, on his cock, on the lighter that was sending his body into flames ...   
  
There wasn't even vulnerability (and he knows this is true because he never once thought of Kyrie).   
  
There just  _was._    
  
And he remembered rolling over, spent and exhausted, and looking up at the monk's body standing over him. He remembered the too-great expanse of his legs and the way his chin tilted down and his face said nothing but his mouth said, "Good show, kid. Just remember you ain't supposed to have an addictive personality, yeah?" ...   
  
and he remembered feeling like a fossil. Like he had dusty, worn-in bones and he was covered in the soil of his grave, and someday someone else was gonna dig up his liquidated corpse and use  _him_  for fuel, too.   
  
He just collapsed with a sigh and threw that talon-arm over his eyes and started damning (cursing?) himself immediately.   
  
  
  
Badou knew from the noise outside of Genkaku's place that he's back and the hovercraft was fixed. It seemed like the natural progression of things, after he'd had to spend several months with the kid. But even as he left the hung-up shack and watched the monk climb off the thing, he knew something was off.   
  
"Get what you want?" But he smiled anyway.   
  
"Yep."   
  
"F'that's how ya look when ya get what you want, I'd hate to see how you look when your dog dies." There was an inebriated pause as Genkaku greeted the politely appeased Hibana with a pat to her head, and when Genkaku tried to walk past the lover, Badou caught him by the arm. "Sup?" is all he ever needed to ask.   
  
"Remember that movie we watched that one time? The guy was like ...  _'I felt like destroying something beautiful'_?"   
  
"Yah, Fight Club. You were a whore for Tyler. So what?"   
  
"Remember the look on his face when he said that?" And when Badou didn't respond, he smiled and tore a kiss from his mouth. "You're a lot more broken in, that's all."   
  
And the undergrounder watched him go into the house, watched the way his hair swayed and just barely exposed the barcode on the back of his neck, unnoticeable if no one had known it was there.   
  
  
  
"... Guess you can't ever help bein' attracted to animals, huh? Even the ones that ain't hurtin'."   
  
Because Nero doesn't hurt like men like them do.   
  
He's just ...  _too human._


End file.
